


And A Bottle of Rum

by thecoquimonster



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Historical Inaccuracies, M/M, Pirate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 09:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16302548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecoquimonster/pseuds/thecoquimonster
Summary: When Aziraphale is marooned on an island, the last thing he expects is to be rescued by pirates.





	And A Bottle of Rum

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I have done like, zero research on pirates aside from watching Pirates of the Caribbean and I don't care. Zombie pirates are real. Unfortunately no zombie pirates will be making an appearance in this fic. 
> 
> This was meant to be a one-shot but it got out of hand. That being said, do not expect quick updates. I have no plot and it's stressing me out.

Gabriel cut Aziraphale’s ties loose and pushed him onto the sand. He was not _that_ Gabriel, the one with wings and a vague displeasure with Aziraphale’s entire existence, though he might as well be with how infuriating he was proving to be. This Gabriel was named Gabriel Castillo de la Vega and he was one of the sailors who’d led a mutiny on the ship the night before.

Aziraphale spat sand out from his mouth. He righted himself onto his knees. A pistol, no doubt loaded with a single bullet, landed in front of him. Aziraphale turned to look at Gabriel, who had gotten back onto the boat.

It hit him. This was actually happening. He was being marooned on an island. How _dare_ these humans—he hadn’t even been really fighting against the mutiny. He knew that sailors were frustrated with the hard work and lack of benefits. But did that mean they had to _maroon_ him? He’d just been caught in the crossbow. Er, something like that, anyway. Crowley would have known what he meant.

“Wait,” Aziraphale called out, stumbling up to his feet. “Wait!”

Gabriel was already rowing back to the ship. “Sorry, good sir!” he yelled out, the wind carrying his voice away, “but this way you’ve got a fighting chance, eh?”

Fighting chance? He was being left on a deserted island. With only a pistol and some palm trees. Aziraphale didn’t need food or water, so he wouldn’t need to off himself before dying of starvation or dehydration. But flying out of here would be a problem, considering he had no idea where he was. Perhaps he’d have to use that pistol after all.

Gabriel—the one with wings—would have a field day with _that_.

Aziraphale waded into the ocean, but the waves kept pushing him back. The boat kept drifting away. He had no choice but to turn back to the island. Aziraphale collapsed down onto the sand and watched as the boat reached the ship.

He wondered just what exactly he was supposed to do now.

Aziraphale didn’t want to use the pistol. There had to be another solution to getting off this island that didn’t involve him discorporating himself. He didn’t feel like spending a few weeks in Heaven enduring the archangels’ complaints about the supposed disrespect with which he treated his bodies.

And Crowley would undoubtedly have a laughing fit the next time they came across each other and he saw that Aziraphale was in a new corporation.

He would just have to stay on this island for as long as it took for some other ship to find him. It might take centuries—he really wasn’t looking forward to waiting that long until a ship passed him by.

Aziraphale glanced up at the sky and sighed. He could still fly. But he hadn’t flown in such a long time. He would tire far too soon. And he had no idea where and when he would find land again.

He frowned at the palm trees, at the sparse vegetation on the island. Could he build a raft? A signal fire? He rose to his feet and walked towards the palms. Coconuts were strewn about the floor. Aziraphale doubted that he would be able to open one for a drink. Which was a pity, because it would give him something to do.

Aziraphale sat down in the shade of a palm tree and sighed. He turned his head to where he’d last seen the ship, but already it had vanished beyond the horizon. Aziraphale closed his eyes and set his pistol down beside him. He had time. He had all the time he needed, really.

What if he just fell asleep? And then when he woke up, everything would have sorted itself out? Unlikely. But without much else to do, Aziraphale’s eyelids began to grow heavy despite himself. Virtue didn’t need to be ever-vigilant if there wasn’t a chance of any sin being around.

Aziraphale jerked awake hours later, when the ocean was beginning to swallow up the sun. And he was still on the island, which meant that he’d been right to think things wouldn’t sort themselves out. The angel stood. His mouth was dry. He really would like some water right now.

He should have explored the island more before falling asleep under the shade. Just because he could miracle away his hunger and thirst didn’t mean he wanted to. He wouldn’t have a lot of time before it was dark. He figured his best course of action would be to build a fire for the night. Aziraphale would have to put off exploring until tomorrow.

He collected things he felt would be reasonably flammable; grass and dried palm leaves, pieces of driftwood and such. Aziraphale started the fire with a miracle. He wasn’t feeling very patient today. And, truth be told, he hadn’t ever started a fire without a miracle before. These weren’t exactly the perfect circumstances to try it for the first time.

The heat of the flames just reminded Aziraphale of his thirst. He licked his lips and willed it away. He tended to the fire overnight.

When morning finally came, Aziraphale gathered more leaves and driftwood. Assured that the fire would be stable for at least a couple of hours, he resolved to do some exploring. The island was large enough that he hoped he’d be able to find at least a small stream.

He had been walking for around half an hour when he stepped on what felt like wood. It creaked. He put more pressure on his foot, listening closely. Another creak.

Like a _door._

Aziraphale dropped to his knees and brushed off the dirt and sand from where he’d stepped. It was indeed a door. Out here? He supposed this island wasn’t quite as deserted as he had originally thought.

He pulled the door open and coughed as dust climbed up around his head in a cloud. Stairs led downward into a dark room.

Aziraphale frowned. He could tell pirates used this place to store their contraband. What kind of contraband? There was only one way to find out. He hesitated.

If he took anything from here, he would eventually have a crew of angry pirates after him for stealing their goods. But then, these goods had been stolen in the first place. It was why they were here. And they would be put to use, Aziraphale rationalized, not sitting here waiting for months.

That did it. Aziraphale went down the steps and waved his hand to clear away the dust. Blue light appeared in the palm of his hand and he looked at the shelves. Rum.

He was saved.

He took as many bottles of rum into his arms as he could carry.

Now he had a pistol, a fire, and rum. Basic necessities.

Aziraphale returned to his fire, where he set about trying to get as drunk as angelically possible. It was something to do, after all.

Once he’d finished the first bottle, he hiccupped and reflected that it wasn’t nearly as entertaining as he’d hoped it would be. He leaned back onto the palm tree he’d fallen asleep on yesterday, his eyes fluttering shut. The bottle refilled itself.

He tried to take a drink and misaimed. Rum sloshed onto his shirt. He didn’t think to dry his shirt, only lifted the bottle up again to drink. He miracled some of the alcohol away from his bloodstream; alcohol poisoning wasn’t on the list of ways he wanted to be discorporated, and there was such a thing as being too drunk to find it enjoyable. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale found that this line, if he was by himself, was being drunk at all. He wasn’t in the particular habit of drinking alone. It had been a while. Usually, Crowley was around to provide companionship and conversation. Drinking alone just felt wrong. Lonely.

He repeated the cycle of finishing off the rum bottle, ridding the alcohol away from his bloodstream, refilling the bottle a few times. He hoped that more alcohol might fill the gaping feeling in this moment. That it might drown out the voice of Crowley’s last corporation. It didn’t.

Aziraphale indulged himself in imagining a conversation with the demon. Nothing was uncharted territory between them. Every argument so comfortable and familiar that he knew what Crowley would say, and what tone and inflection he would use to say them.

“Pirates break the law,” Aziraphale said, aloud. It wasn’t that he was interested in proving a pirate’s goodness or lack thereof. He understood the _reasons_ sailors staged mutinies. It was only inevitable. But after being marooned, he was feeling less generous towards their methods.

He could almost hear Crowley’s voice right in his ear, asking if breaking the law could be considered _good_ on some occasions.

“Not the pillaging or kidnapping,” Aziraphale countered with another drink. In his mind, Crowley’s voice began to sing that shanty about a pirate’s life being for him.

Aziraphale found himself humming along as he clutched his rum bottle. “Drink up, me hearties, yo-ho,” he muttered. Despite the fact that he hadn’t seen the demon in decades, he could clearly imagine Crowley hissing in drunken laughter.

He pried open his eyes. Instinctively he turned his head to the side, expecting to see Crowley dozing off by his lap. Aziraphale’s stomach clenched as he took in the empty space by him. He didn’t usually mind being alone, but this was different. He was on an island by himself with nothing but a pistol, a dying fire, and bottles of rum.  

Even if Crowley wouldn’t have been able to help in their situation, at least he would have a companion. His only choice now was to drink until someone found him. Aziraphale took a drink.

He felt himself drifting off again. Sighing, he let his eyes close.

The angel woke up with a worse hangover than he remembered getting in a long while. He groaned and climbed to his feet, blearily noticing that his fire had burned itself out. Too late, he remembered that alcohol fueled fires.

He still had rum. He could build another fire if he wished to, but it seemed like such a waste.

Aziraphale willed his hangover away and took another drink. He headed for the shore, taking swigs of his rum every couple of steps. He glanced up, intending to peer at the horizon, hoping to find distant sails.

He was surprised to find a ship right off the shore.

A man climbed down the gangplank. His clothes were wind-ruffled and he wore a large hat to keep the sun from his eyes.

Aziraphale dropped his bottle. Rum spilled out onto the sand, but the bottle did not break.

Things really had just sorted themselves out.

“That’s strange,” said the man—or rather, man-shaped being—in an incredibly familiar voice. He surveyed the island. Aziraphale could not see his eyes; the shade of his hat obscured them. Nevertheless, the angel knew what color they were. Golden. “Could’ve sworn we were right off the coast of Italy.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, breaking away from the palm trees to rush to his friend. He could scarcely believe his luck. “Crowley!”

The demon turned his head and smiled when he recognized Aziraphale. “Angel! What on earth are you doing here?”

“Never mind that,” Aziraphale said, brushing past him to the gangplank.

“’Never mind that?’” Crowley echoed as Aziraphale began climbing up onto the ship. “Now, hold on a moment—”

Aziraphale glanced back at him and frowned. “What is it, Crowley?”

“You can’t just—” Crowley spluttered, but his voice died down as he seemed to realize that Aziraphale _could_ just. He regained his composure. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I became the captain of a pirate ship? Or even how I came across here? This island is in the middle of nowhere.”

Aziraphale blinked. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that this ship was a pirate ship, if Crowley was the captain of it. But, come to think of it, it was rather odd that Crowley had shown up here of all places. Just a couple of days after Aziraphale had been dropped off. “How did you come across this island?”

“I haven’t one bloody clue,” Crowley said.

“ _I_ was marooned,” Aziraphale said. He waved a hand in the general direction of his makeshift campsite. “I found rum, though, if you and your crew want to have a look-through.”

Aziraphale heard Crowley huff with amusement behind him. “Oh, you know me so well.”

When Aziraphale got aboard the ship, he reached down to offer Crowley help with climbing up. Crowley grabbed hold of his hand and hauled himself up. The crew surged forward, clamoring with questions.

“Where are we?”

“How did we get here?”

“What are we doing here?”

“Who’s this?”

Aziraphale inched closer to Crowley, who waved his hands and shouted at his crew to quiet down. They fell silent.

Crowley almost looked as though he hadn’t expected his crew to have obeyed his orders so quickly, but he shook it off. He cleared his throat and amicably took hold of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “This here is an old friend of mine, Mr. Fell.”

This time, the surge of questions was directed at Aziraphale himself.

“I was marooned,” Aziraphale said over the uproar. “That’s all I wish to say.”

One of the crew stepped forward hesitantly, her curly dark hair brushing her shoulders. Aziraphale felt faintly surprised; it was rare to see a woman aboard a ship. Yet as Aziraphale gave the rest of the crew a quick glance, he realized she was not the only woman aboard.

“My first mate,” Crowley murmured, for Aziraphale’s benefit. “Margret Delaney.”

Miss Delaney smiled. Aziraphale couldn’t help wondering what a girl like her was doing onboard a pirate ship, but there was a certain cleverness to her eyes. A hardness, too. “Then I say you were incredibly lucky, Mr. Fell.”

“All right,” Crowley said. “We can all introduce ourselves later. Mr. Fell told me some other poor sods used this island as a rum cache. And don’t we love rum.”

The crew yelled in the affirmative. Aziraphale stayed behind on the ship with Crowley and Miss Delaney as the rest of them went on a hunt for the rum bottles he’d left. He was not stepping foot on that island ever again.

One man came back and slapped a pistol into Aziraphale’s hand. It was the same one that Gabriel Castillo de la Vega had given him. “Looks like whoever marooned you really liked you, sir.”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so he just accepted the pistol.

Crowley waved it off. “Don’t mind him.”

They kept watching the crew members slowly trickle back onto the ship.

“Suppose we don’t need to stop for supplies now,” Miss Delaney joked as the last of the crew came aboard.

Crowley flashed Aziraphale a smile and patted Miss Delaney on her shoulder, murmuring some orders to her. The demon turned back to Aziraphale and said, “I’m going to take Mr. Fell back into the captain’s quarters. We need to get reacquainted.”

“Of course,” Miss Delaney said. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he would have said there was a knowing twinkle in her eyes. She straightened her back. “I’ll take good care of things here, captain.”

Crowley led Aziraphale to his private quarters.

“A _pirate_ ship?” Aziraphale hissed under his breath as Crowley closed the doors behind them.

The demon shrugged. “Oh, come on now, Aziraphale. If not for my ship, you’d still be on that wretched island. Besides, it fits my image, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose I should thank you for your hospitality,” Aziraphale said.

“Well, you were in a bit of a bind,” Crowley mused. “Imagine what might’ve happened if I’d decided to leave the island without you.”

They both knew that Crowley wouldn’t have done such a thing. Aziraphale huffed with amusement. He really had missed Crowley, he realized with strange sinking feeling.

“I hope you can overlook that we’re a bunch of filthy lawless beasts,” Crowley said with a grin.

“I don’t think all of that,” he replied. It was true. Mostly Aziraphale just thought they were filthy. “But I think I can overlook it during the voyage home.”

“Voyage home? You mean to England?”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. “Of course I mean England. Where else?”

“Angel,” Crowley said, turning serious. “We’re _pirates_. They’ll have our heads and stick them on pikes. I was rather hoping you’d stay awhile.”

“You want me to stay?” Aziraphale was puzzled. Certainly, they hadn’t seen each other in a long time, but it would be rather awkward for an angel to stay aboard a pirate ship. Wouldn’t it?

“You don’t have to decide right now. The nearest port we can drop you off at is a long way off.” Crowley crossed the room. He brought out a bottle of wine and turned back to the angel. He took a step forward, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But perhaps I can find some way to persuade you.”


End file.
